On the eve of an arbitrary celebration…

https://questionablecontent.net/view.php?comic=4987

True story, Word of Honor:
Joseph Heller, an important and funny writer
now dead,
and I were at a party given by a billionaire
on Shelter Island.

I said, “Joe, how does it make you feel
to know that our host only yesterday
may have made more money
than your novel ‘Catch-22’
has earned in its entire history?”
And Joe said, “I’ve got something he can never have.”
And I said, “What on earth could that be, Joe?”
And Joe said, “The knowledge that I’ve got enough.”
Not bad! Rest in peace!

Kurt Vonnegut

I’m reminded today, on this eve of the anniversary of when our lives changed so dramatically, that our time together is forever tied (in my head) to the Russian invasion of Ukraine, last year. That’s weird.

I mean, it’s not, I suppose. Our first date — when the knowledge that you were something unique and special to me, that we were something somehow more unique and special together, became solidified as more than suspicion or a hopeful dream of a hopeless romantic — was two days before what was in the moment a huge thing. And I recall over the spring and summer that followed, as us became more and more real, that my superstitious brain kept thinking that if that conflict ended, somehow that would affect us.

Arbitrary. Coincidental. Unrelated and yet entwined.

There are beginnings and endings every day, and those too are arbitrary and often undefined and unnoticed. It’s only when we put a pin in them that they become a thing – marked on a calendar, remembered and remarked in coming years as significant. People come and go, flowing and ebbing into and out of our conscious notice, on a constant basis, and yet rare is the moment that sticks and becomes indelibly inked on us.

I can’t remember what I wore that night, or where you left your car, or what you or I ordered. What song(s) played on the way to or from the restaurant. I remember that Cat warmed up to you immediately. I remember you taking my hand on the drive from Gianmarco’s back to my place. I remember you stumbling on the way out, sitting on the floor with your back against my couch and us talking.

Our first kiss. That I remember. And maybe it was tentative, or just physical, or alcohol and the creeping hour, but it was also the first of many more.

And here we are, 365 days later. Texts about Vonnegut and cats and brushing the surface and points deeper have turned to running inside jokes and reminders of adulting and memes and reminders of how we feel about one another. Kyiv stills stands. Politics is still stupid, pop culture cranks along.

Just like the world, measured in arbitrary clicks of months and weeks and days and hours and seconds that we humans made up to give us a sense of orientation, it feels like reading a book that I’ve cracked a thousand times, divided by arbitrary chapters and paragraph breaks and semicolons. I know the plot and the characters and the flow, but each reading brings new details and understanding of motivations and a deeper enjoyment. It feels like lifetimes have passed with you and every day is new mystery waiting to see how all this turns out. Forever has slipped by and everything is new.

It’s taken me a million missteps and miscalculations and misreads to get here, but those are also lessons, opportunities to learn and get better and to soften the edges so that I fit together with you more gracefully and comfortably.

I’m right where I need and want to be, and that is enough – more than most people will ever know. I hope I have shown and continue to show that you every day, how much I appreciate this sensation.

le vêtement des rêves

she came to me dressed in dreams
of a better, brighter day after
of hope and wonder
of new experience and remembered optimism

the hazy shimmering fabrics
hypnotic in their constant peripheral shifting
seemed to sing to me
alien but familiar instruments and songs

she is impossible in her reverence
unimagined miracles simmering under the surface
barely concealed promises
and whispers of inconceivable marvel

melodies more vibrant, colors more vivid
words flow unimpeded into lavender calligraphy
fears of a null future mere apparitions in the candlelight
easily dismissed and ignored in perpetuum

aim every day to make her happier than she makes you

when all was bent and turned to smoke
when the last vestige of anticipation had turned to ash
when the fire and the rose had become one
elle est venue à moi vêtue de rêves

perspective

you’ve shown me one important thing
that no one has ever been able to show me
before

not that I’m handsome
not that I’m smart
not that I’m caring
not that I’m funny
not that I’m sweet

none of that

you’ve shown me something more important
than any of those things:

you’ve shown me that I am important
that there’s a reason I’m here
that the world is lucky to have me

my signal fire

there were moments
spread across decades
when I thought the path was lost
or maybe just imagined from the outset
though hope remained ever-present
and I kept taking single steps
(directionless steps better than no steps at all)

looking everywhere
but finding nothing resembling an idyllic destination
that I imagined I would discover
along the trail
just another landscape
littered with empty bottles
photographs and half-filled pages of scribbling
cigarette butts and broken guitar strings
detritus, evidence of
amusing myself to death

moving forward in space, in time
a drifting woolgatherer
feeling aimless but somehow correct
with each decision

sometimes trusting the moon as my guide
or lines from books or songs
sometimes stumbling
sometimes falling
but always trusting that I felt a pull

and then

that pull became real
though I couldn’t know it at the time
a simple beginning
mostly words that flowed like an undammed river
of Vonnegut and Eliot
of music and bad jokes
and talking in your sleep

I could never have guessed
sitting states away in a gentle snowfall
and yet somehow I knew
that I had found my signal fire
the flare that could lead me
if not home
then where I was supposed to be

and it was then that I discovered
that there is a difference
between feeling happy
and being distracted from sadness

july-baked ramblings

a win is a win
sweeter still when rare

whether something small and silly
like a trivia game or a crossword
or more meaningful
like the perfect chord or choice of phrase

sometimes I wonder:
if you could see yourself through my eyes
hear your song through my ears
kiss yourself with my mouth
caress your cheek with my fingertips
crave your touch and kiss and words with my every breath…

sometimes I wonder:
would you believe me then?
would you believe the words I say and write?
that, I think, would be a victory of the highest order

(and it occurs to me that
I’ve showed more of myself to you
than any other person in my life)


if there were a timequake
and I was forced to relive the last decade
every choice that led to misery
every jagged drunken night alone and afraid
every regret and missed opportunity and loss

…well, there’s not even a debate, is there:
that I would relive every moment
ten times over if needed
just to have this time with you again

for all that is wrong with this timeline
the injustice and cruelty and unpredictable nonsense
I can’t imagine missing connecting with you


I think this mood ring fingernail polish is funny;
I wear it on your finger, with my half of our ring
and it changes red to black and back often
but my mood for you is constant and warm.

a win is a win
sweetest of all when unique
and unexpected

vonnegut and martin

“Then again, I am a monopolar depressive descended from monopolar depressives. That’s how come I write so good.”
-Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Timequake

“Rather than do an interview with me, which would be fascinating, by the way… because of the interesting word usements I structure… I thought I’d show you around town a little bit…”
Steve Martin, L.A. Story

of skills unremembered

i wish my hands knew how to work
a pencil, a brush, a stick of charcoal
to do away with the interpretive nature of language
and simply show the images in my mind:

of the shape of your body
the gentle small curves that trace from toe to neck
the reflections of sunlight off your freshly showered skin
your perfect legs and perfect fingers and perfect everything

of the sublime Shangri-La that is your countenance
the lips that smile at and speak to and kiss me so heart-stoppingly
the lines that echo a lifetime of laughter and learning and living
the eyes that observe and haunt and twinkle so blindingly

of the way you shine so radiantly
laughing at bad puns and inside jokes
in the throes of physical bliss
when you tell me ‘I love you’

i want these images as reminders for myself
i want to share them with the world, unbidden
but mostly i want you to understand
how your song looks to my soul

thoughts and a prayer

it is no longer an isolated event
something that we are safe from
if we live in a small town
if we are in a house of worship
if we are middle-aged and live a quiet life
if we are young children obtaining an education

it is so commonplace that new cycles
don’t have a chance to complete
before another incident takes the place of the previous

we no longer know names
or circumstances
of victims
or purveyors of American carnage

(gods forbid that you should be traveling in coach:
non-white
non-Christian
non-cisgendered
non-hetero
non-rich
non-powerful)

a small but powerful minority
the greed visible in the whites of their eyes
holds a nation hostage
for the sake of filling their pockets
and cementing their egos

and our parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles
and cousins and friends and neighbors
and goddamnit our fucking children
have no chance to say goodbye
and still we do nothing


I am tired
tired of feeling sad
tired of feeling helpless
tired of feeling trapped with no recourse
tired of my anger overflowing and
pushing me closer to the low road

but I am also blessed
beyond words
beyond my ability to describe
far beyond what I would think I deserve
with a partner like her

a partner (a friend) who listens to me without judgment
or complaint
a partner (a friend) who I can be completely open and honest
and myself
even in the worst of my moments
a partner (a friend) who just by being who she is
can make me forget the tumult and negativity
put me in the eye of the hurricane of the world
if only for a moment
if only for days at a time

little things
like Post-It notes on the door that I don’t see for days
songs labelled with “(lyrics)”
distracting videos
of cats
of ridiculous humans
of roosters screaming in her backyard

and so this is a prayer of thanks
to her
to let her know how much she means
how much she is
to me
especially next to me in the darkness

no waiting to pray to a fantasy
not this day

a penthouse residence

imagine:
being gifted with words
and the ability to listen
no fear of asking for clarification
a desire to know
and to teach any who share the same

music theory
binary algebra
the psychology of criminals
and the virtuous
quantum mechanics
perhaps even hypotheses surrounding
unsolvable mysteries
magic
the truly unknown
expressions and verbalizations for any and all

and then imagine:
waking to find oneself
with another
one who is even easier to communicate with
that one with an innate
maybe supernatural
connection

two notes on the guitar that sing just so
puzzle pieces that click together without effort or search
the perfect word to complete a lyric
potassium chlorate and friction

thoughts travel without words
or newly invented terms
or misused
or mistranslated
or mangled
or made-up

but trying to tell the world
those close and distant
those near and far
to shout from the rooftops
to send out email newsletters
or family correspondence
‘zines
mimeographed pictograms
smoke signals

all media fall short
systems and processes fail

the most important thing
for me to share
how wonderful the universe is
with you in my heart

that message is trapped with us
in our penthouse residence
atop a modern-age Tower of Babel

as long as you hear my declaration
there’s nowhere I’d be happier to reside

a symphony for two instruments

a solitary beam of light
a bridge from heaven to earth
Bifröst
connecting the ears of gods
to the seemingly empty stage

silence builds
and is broken
gently
a lonely and haunting melody
swelling, ebbing, cresting, falling
sweet bowed strings
or perhaps a tender reed

minutes pass
perhaps months
and the tune morphs seamlessly
building upon itself
looping back
echoing
changing
all while retaining the theme

and then

a second voice is present
weaving in and out
providing counterpart
harmonizing
creating tension
providing resolution
as though the second voice had been present
all along

both instruments distinct
yet indistinguishable within the moment
individual
moving on their own
in unison with the other

the listener allows themselves
to float
to be absorbed
to be carried along
passed back and forth
handed between the tones
like a newborn
like the rarest of flowers
softly, lightly, gingerly

and as the tide carries them
the duet has become an orchestra
countless tones and chords
singular authors unable to be particulated
a pillow of song
large enough to comfort an entire hall

the sum of two instruments
so much greater than the pieces
when played with the rarest of connections
of understanding
of hearts forged from the same starstuff